Not the Reaction He Expected
by aleximoon
Summary: Sherlock's return after the Fall does not go according to plan. The plan being Sherlock's plan. And we all know that Sherlock's plans are inadvisable at best. Part one of the 365-Writing Challenge. Slash. M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1

AN: This is supposed to be the first installment of the 365 Writing Challenge (1 fic per day) that I decided to do over on tumblr. I am way behind seeing as how it's the 25th and I've only written this one piece. But I'll see how it goes!

John Watson did not react to the return of Sherlock Holmes the way that Sherlock had anticipated.

And Sherlock, being Sherlock, had anticipated many reactions.

But John, being John, proved to be a surprise.

In the three years that Sherlock had been absent he had thought a great deal about John and his old life at Baker St. He missed it in a way that he had never missed anything before and that included his late Mummy and cocaine. Mycroft had sent along irregular updates on John and Sherlock had known that after a few months of quiet mourning John had moved out of their flat. John had found a job in a hospital. He was doing emergency medicine and Mycroft said that he seemed to be back in his element.

Sherlock had assumed that John's _element _was working cases alongside himself.

John was making new friends through his new job. John was dating new girls.

John was moving on with his new life and Sherlock wasn't a part of it. He found this to be intolerable.

So, one rainy evening, three years after Sherlock had taken that step off the roof of St. Bart's he stood in the doorway of John's flat and rang the bell. He could hear talking and muffled laughter echoing from inside and he slid his hands down his coat, straightening out invisible wrinkles.

He had spent a lot of time picturing this moment. He expected at least one good punch to the face, possibly two, but three was unlikely and not very good for John's hand seeing as how he was doing surgical work again. John would undoubtedly cry at some point, probably after the punch but Sherlock wasn't certain, it could premeditate the physical outpouring of grief and relief. Hugging would be involved. Sherlock was not looking forward to that part of their re-acquaintance but John was a physical man and he was willing to make sacrifices in order to get his life with John and the Work back on track. There was also the vague chance that John might make some sort of intimate confession. Sherlock wasn't _expecting_ one but the idea had occurred to him one night after a particularly bad day when he was feeling rather a bit too nostalgic for home (John) and since the idea had occurred to him he hadn't been able to rule the possibility out.

Sherlock was aware that his most successful relationship to-date involved John Watson. It was not outside the realm of possibility that John might want to take a step with their friendship. The idea made Sherlock uncomfortable but, oddly, he did not find it abhorrent.

These were the possible options that Sherlock had considered before knocking upon John's door. He was fairly confident that some combination would occur once John knew that he still lived. Once they had gotten past the tedious reunion John would move back into 221B and their lives (Sherlock's mostly) could resume.

But John did none of these things. He simply stood on the other side of his doorway, the warmth of his flat emanating from behind him, and studied Sherlock. John looked different somehow. His hair was a bit longer. He was wearing a white dress shirt and suit trousers. Sherlock assumed it was what he wore to work. But he preferred John in his jumpers and denims. After another moment Sherlock realized that John wasn't going to be the first to speak.

"John."

This was the moment for rage, for the tears, for the recriminations. Sherlock was expecting them. He was prepared for them.

"So, you're alive then?" John's voice was calm, very calm. John was nodding, his face a blank, unreadable slate.

(Sherlock could always read John, _always.)_

"That's good. That's really good, Sherlock." John smiled a not-John smile.

"John_," _his voice sounded broken even to his own ears.

There was a tinkle of glasses from behind John and more laughter. John glanced back towards the voices, to the warmth of his new flat and his new life.

"Err, look, Sherlock-" John began, "Now's not the best time, I have some friends over. Is your old number working again, or is there a new one? We should try and get together sometime this week."

Sherlock could think of nothing to say. John had left him completely dumbfounded. Sherlock had planned this out. This was not how John was supposed to react. If anything this was a non-reaction! John should have been angry. He should have cried and then punched him or perhaps punched him and then cried. There should have been the possibility of an intimate confession. But all Sherlock could read in John's face was an unflappable calmness and a determination to close the door.

"_John,"_ Sherlock tried one last time.

There was another crescendo of laughter behind John and then the good doctor was stepping back. He was closing the door. "Look, Sherlock, I'll give you a call later this week. Now is just a really bad time. Take care of yourself, all right?"

And then Sherlock was stumbling back out onto the walk. He stared back at John's closed door in consternation. This was _not_ how John was supposed to react; not at all.

In Sherlock's opinion it was a rather inauspicious beginning to their reunion.

Read and review, please!


	2. Chapter 2

AN: This is day 2 of the 365 - Day Writing Challenge. That's right, I'm only behind by 24 days, I've got this! These are just my little tumblr fics so I don't plan on their being any chapters of substantial length, beta-ed, or brit picked.

Please R&R!

Mycroft, who could normally be relied upon to be his cynical and officious self, was quite pleased to see Sherlock, If his (dare one suggest it) gleeful expression was anything to go by when Sherlock slunk willfully into the back of his car. The sleek, black vehicle had prowled slowly behind Sherlock for several blocks after he John's flat before he finally got in.

"Why are you so pleased?" Sherlock drawled, "Did you have an extra cake with tea? Or, perhaps, topple a third-world government this morning?"

"Now, Sherlock," Mycroft actually smiled at his brother, "My younger brother's soon-to-be miraculous, and well-publicized, return from the dead is enough to make one a touch more cheerful than normal."

There was a plain manila folder residing on his lap that he began to flip through. Sherlock pretended not to pay attention, which was pointless because Mycroft knew that Sherlock always paid attention to him (before doing the exact opposite of what he wanted). There was a screen capture from a CCTV camera, thoughtfully placed on a lamp post outside of John's flat, which showed Sherlock's recent audience with the good doctor.

Mycroft studied the print-out for a moment before tutting, "It would seem that your reunion with Dr. Watson did not go as you had hoped."

Sherlock scowled out the window of the smoothly gliding car but did not respond.

Mycroft sifted through a few more photos of John pausing on one long enough that Sherlock withdrew his outward gaze to look at it. This was not a photo taken from the CCTV system. This was a sharply detailed picture taken with a quality camera and zoom lens. John was in an upstairs room, bedroom judging by the curtains, in mid conversation with a woman that he probably found attractive. They were standing closer than Sherlock deemed appropriate.

"You felt it necessary to place a surveillance team in the flat across the street from John?"

Mycroft would do nothing as vulgar as shrug his shoulders but the slight arch of his left eyebrow was undeniably clear.

"You have become far too much of a voyeur, Mycroft, in my absence. Tell me-" Sherlock ran his gloved hands through his tangled, wet curls before popping up his collar, "-Why are you so interested in John?"

His brother had the gall to chuckle. "Oh Sherlock, I do not find John interesting at all, but you do and I find that incredibly fascinating."

The car slowed to a crawl while approaching a traffic light. Sherlock took this opportunity to shove open the door and slide back out into the rain. The car's driver hit the brakes upon the door's opening bringing traffic to a sudden halt. Sherlock turned back to his brother, ignoring a car horn that was blasting from the driver behind them.

"Grow up, Mycroft!"

And Mycroft, that posh bastard, laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: I'm onto Day 3, Peace of Mind, for the 365-day challenge. I am sooo behind. Again, since I am originally posting this on tumblr, these are going to be small chapters (that and the fact that there are supposed to be 365 of the darn things.) This is going somewhere, just slowly.

Mrs. Hudson went through most of her second favorite tea service when Sherlock showed up on her doorstep at Baker Street. She had surprisingly good aim for a woman of her age; Sherlock would never refer to it as her dotage (although he might like too occasionally). Broken porcelain littered the entry hall of his former flat and his former landlady, _not housekeeper, _was sobbing in his arms.

This, at least, he had expected. Well, the flying tea pot had been a surprise, but not a great one.

Sherlock patted the elderly woman tentatively. "Now, now, Mrs. Hudson, it's all right."

She made a rather unladylike snort against his shoulder. "It's not all right, you silly boy, how could you do this to us?" She pulled back from him and wandered into her little kitchen muttering about her herbal soothers. "Do you have any grasp of what you put us through? Poor John, he seemed so heartbroken. I swear your brother has gained at least two stone. I don't even want to discuss how many handkerchiefs I've used to pieces! And to think, it was all a trick." She struggled with a nondescript pill bottle before handing it to Sherlock to open.

With a quick twist of his wrist he handed the opened bottle back to her. She quickly swallowed three, fat pink pills before continuing. "The mess you made; oh, you terrible boy, Sherlock!" She sniffled again and Sherlock took a precautionary step backwards in case she felt inclined to cry on him some more.

"I understand that you find this situation very distressing, Mrs. Hudson, but I must insist that I had everyone's interests in mind. There were people in danger, people that would have come to harm if I did not do what I did."

She harrumphed.

Sherlock was beginning to feel that his situation was looking rather a little hopeless. There was no John, no Mrs. Hudson, and no 221B Baker Street left for him. Was no one thrilled that he was alive? (Mycroft _did not _count.) What exactly did he come back for?

"Oh," Her voice gentled, "Now don't go making that face, dear, I am happy that you're back." She gave him half a smile, "I'm furious with you, of course, but pleased as well." Mrs. Hudson patted his cheek, "It's like our own little miracle it is."

He felt an odd, and not entirely pleasant, stir of emotions at this. It was supposed to be easier than this. He had made the right decision; he had wanted to protect the people that he cared about. He had protected them. It wasn't very fair of them to make him feel so guilty about it.

"I suppose you'll be wanting into the flat? Start unpacking your things?"

Sherlock looked at her sharply.

Mrs. Hudson tittered, "Your brother has been making payments on 221B all along. He told me that it was for sentimental reasons but I think now that that was not the case."

"And my things?"

Mrs. Hudson fished a loop of keys out of a small cupboard near the door. "I packed up your things; afterwards, John couldn't bring himself too." She led him up the stairs. "I was going to donate the clothes to my church and your odds and ends to a school but I just couldn't bring myself too." She unlocked the door and Sherlock stepped past her.

The furniture was all there, covered in dusty sheets, but he knew that nothing had been moved or changed. Large moving boxes lined the floor of the kitchen and across his much-abused table. Someone had drawn a red skull and cross bones on some of the boxes, John marking the more hazardous items, he was sure.

"John didn't take anything when he left?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head as she pulled the grayish linen covering the sofa away. A rise dust followed and she coughed lightly. "No," She was finally able to say, "I don't think he took anything other than what he had originally brought with him." Folding the fabric over her arm she regarded Sherlock over her shoulder. "Does he know? Have you been to see him?"

"Since Mycroft has been making payments I assume that it will be acceptable for me to move in right away?" Sherlock turned away from her question.

"Why yes, of course," She smiled kindly as if his non-response had already told her everything there was to know about his reunion with John. "I'll tell you, it'll be a real coup for my state of mind, having someone back here. I can't stand it when there's no one here. It's too quiet for me."

"Don't worry; I'm sure that I'll be noisily damaging the flat in no time."


	4. Chapter 4

AN - Well, I'm trying to catch up. Here's the next one!

Day 4 – Childhood Memories

Sherlock had been residing (hiding out) at 221B Baker Street for three days before Mycroft finally saw fit to reintroduce his brother to the public. For three days Sherlock stayed hidden away in his flat, without any word from John, while Mycroft went about putting the final touches on the information that would be given to the press. Sherlock wasn't surprised; Mycroft had always needed to do things in his own time, in his own way, and with little to no input from his younger brother. It was just as infuriating now as it had been when they were children, but to be honest, Sherlock was a little tired from his travels. He had slept rarely and meals had been few and far between. His body was drained and his mind exhausted. As annoying at Sherlock found Mycroft's need to have every little detail of Sherlock's return hashed out, organized, and notarized there was a small (miniscule really) part of the consulting detective that was thankful that he could just spend some time lounging on his sofa while Mrs. Hudson brought him biscuits and tea every hour.

The only real fly in Sherlock's ointment was that it was supposed to be John plying him with tea and biscuits, and possibly eggs made only the way John could, not Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock had tried texting John once or twice (truthfully it was one text every thirty minutes except between the hours of midnight and five am -Sherlock remembered how John said that he needed at least five hours of sleep a night-) and he had even called the man. Sherlock hated to call; he far preferred to text. But did John have the decency to answer his call or respond to any of the texts? Not hardly. It was a really frustrating situation.

Sherlock had spent his first full day back in his flat sleeping. It took him a little while to get comfortable though. He had started out on the sofa but the once pliant cushions seemed to have hardened up a bit in his absence. He had then slouched into his old bedroom. Mrs. Hudson had insisted on putting a clean set of linens on the bed for him (hers since his were in a box somewhere probably not marked with a skull) and Sherlock had found the soft, pink sheets printed with tiny roses to be beyond abhorrent and he had slammed the door on them. Sherlock tried each of the armchairs but they were both a touch too dusty. The kitchen table was laden with boxes. The floor had not been hoovered in quite some time, not that Sherlock had ever hoovered the floor before his tumble off of St. Barts.

He finally found comfort upstairs in John's old bed. There were no sheets or pillows so he curled simply on his side with his arms tucked up under his cheek on the bare mattress. It was foolish but he thought that he could still smell a hint of John on it.

John's lingering scent of tea and pine was the only thing that the good doctor seemed to have left of himself in the flat.

On the second day Sherlock started to unpack his belongings. He had never been exactly prone to putting things away so every surface that had previously been bare was now heaped with books, papers, and lab equipment. The empty boxes he threw down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson complained about the mess when she brought him groceries from Tesco but grudgingly broke down the cardboard and put it out in the bins. Sherlock poked through the bags that she had brought with her. There were eggs, tea, jam, and bread. It was exactly what John had bought the first time he brought home groceries.

It had been the morning after the cabbie affair. They had eaten Chinese food and then slunk back to 221B, John was too exhausted to go home to his bedsit and he had collapsed on the sofa. In the morning Sherlock had woken to John's complaining about the sheer lack of food. He had left the flat without a word to the detective and Sherlock had thought, really and truly thought that he wasn't going to come back. Dr. Watson would run across the rooftops of London with him, examine corpses, and shoot a stranger dead for him, but Sherlock's lack of tea, toast, and jam was simply a bridge too far for the poor man. Sherlock had felt oddly melancholy but had figured that it was better to get it over and done with rather than get settled and then have John leave.

But John had come back, of course, and bearing a Tesco's bag containing not only the reverential tea, toast, and jam combination but also eggs. Then John had found a semi clean pan and proceeded to make Sherlock breakfast and then actually made Sherlock eat it.

Sherlock frowned at Mrs. Hudson's offering; he didn't want eggs, tea, jam, and toast if John wasn't there to make him eat it. He shoved the entire bag into the barren fridge.

On the third day Sherlock had finished emptying the boxes and discovered that his skull and violin were missing. He shouted for Mrs. Hudson but she had no idea where they might have gotten to. He texted Mycroft but received no immediate response. Sherlock was almost panicking when he texted John, far sooner than his next scheduled texting time.

_Do you have my skull? – SH_

_Do you have my violin? – SH_

_John, for god sakes answer me. – SH_

_I will be abandoning the safety of 221B, despite the British Government's direct orders to stay here, and will descend upon your very busy place of employment if you do not respond to me. – SH_

_Calm down, Sherlock, I'll have to check when I get home. They probably got mixed in with my things. I'll find them and courier them over. – JW_

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, John had obviously taken his skull and violin; people did sentimental things like that. He had brought so few belongings into the flat and had taken so little out that there was no possible way he had mistakenly taken along Sherlock's skull and violin. If he had left them, and someone else had taken them, he would have said so. John knew how important the violin and skull were to Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled and flipped his phone in the air, everything was starting to come together, he was in his flat, soon he wouldn't be dead and he could start working on cases again, John had finally responded to him and would be bringing him his belongings. John would be coming back home like he was supposed to be.

Sherlock's fingers twitched and he almost dropped his phone. John had _not_ said that he was coming over. John had clearly said that he would use a courier. Sherlock read the message again, again, and again until the words blurred and his eyes began to hurt. John was not coming to the flat.

This was proving to be more difficult than he had expected.

On the fourth morning Mycroft arrived early with a lovely, tailored suit in dark charcoal grey. He also carried an exact replica of Sherlock's much beloved coat. He refrained from commenting on the state of the flat but his disapproval was apparent. Sherlock scowled at him from his spot on the sofa and did not speak.

Mycroft sighed and held out the suit, "Come along little brother, we're on the eve of your resurrection and you'll want to be dressed."


	5. Chapter 5

AN: The next, very untimely installment, of my 365-Day Writing Challenge is here. Thanks for reading!

Day 5 – Speed

* * *

As it turned out, at least according to Mycroft and his sources, Sherlock had been working on behalf of the government throughout the fiasco with Moriarty. The detective had been _recruited_ by certain officials; MI6 was hinted at but never implicated outright, to attract the interest of Jim Moriarty and other members of the criminal element. The government, of course, had always been aware that Richard Brook was an obvious lie introduced by a gullible media onto an unwitting (moronic) public. While it was not outwardly said by the attractive and yet official looking presenter, who was tasked with reintroducing Sherlock at the very dull press conference that Mycroft had forced him to attend, the opinion of the people in the know was that the media, and specifically the reporter who first ran the story, were all unmitigated idiots with not a single journalistic leg to stand on.

It should have been more satisfying, Sherlock thought, the speed at which Mycroft was able to turn him from a disgraced, dead man into a triumphant returning hero, but really he was just tired. All he wanted to do was get John and go home. Or go home and get John to come home. He would accept either outcome. Then the cases would come and he wouldn't have to think about the time when he was gone and the things that he had done to make sure that none of Moriarty's people would be able to hurt _his _people.

But there were _questions_ that needed to be answered. Not that Sherlock was allowed to answer any questions. In the very brief, before-hand preparation for the press conference it was decided that Sherlock was to simply sit still and attempt to look as un-sociopathic and dangerous as possible while the young official hosting the conference would take all questions.

Which was a good thing because the questions were beyond boring: _Where was Moriarty now? How long had Sherlock been working for the government? Why was the 'Richard Brook' story allowed to perpetuate? Was Sherlock happy to be back in London? What were his plans for the future now? _

Why didn't they ask him what his favorite colour was and what footie league he followed?

It took all of his willpower not to roll his eyes and slouch back in his chair.

But Mycroft was watching and as much as it pained Sherlock to admit (really, truly hurt him) his older brother had done him a very large favor. It was no small task to do what Mycroft had done for him and he would spend the rest of his life paying him back for it. He may as well start by not intentionally ruining the well thought-out presentation.

Afterwards, when questions had been answered sufficiently enough the brothers stood together on a small terrace and smoked.

"The assassins are all dead." Mycroft breathed out a stream of smoke.

Sherlock said nothing because there was no point. If the assassins hadn't all been dead he wouldn't have been there.

Mycroft was unperturbed by the lack of response. "All who were of importance in his organization are being held for questioning. I doubt any of them will ever see freedom. The underlings have been left in place for the most part. They will still go about their work never knowing that their new bosses are all on our payroll."

"What is your point Mycroft, beside the joy of hearing yourself talk?" Sherlock asked sourly even though he knew exactly where his brother was going with this.

The older man smiled, "I must say, Sherlock, I am very impressed with your work. You did a splendid job, and on behalf of Queen and Country too."

Sherlock scoffed, "You know that 'Queen and Country' had no influence on my behavior; as if I care about that!"

Mycroft continued as if he had not heard, "I shiver to think of what you could do if you really did have all the resources that I can offer at your beck and call. Sherlock, we could accomplish so much together."

"I don't have the time, or the inclination, to play rulers of the world with you, Mycroft. I have to get back to the work."

"Oh yes, the work, tell me of your plans." He was smiling, "I suppose you will be expecting DI Lestrade to start requesting your help again? Have you spoken to him?" At Sherlock's expression Mycroft tsked at him, "Dear brother, please tell me that your DI will not be finding out that you are alive through this evening's news?" Mycroft sighed and stamped out his cigarette, "You are not a very popular person at the Yard. I would not count on getting many cases from them. Have you resolved your situation with Dr. Watson?"

Sherlock flinched, and recalled quickly succinctly why he hated his brother, "There is no situation with John. Everything will be fine. He just needs some time to adjust. Not that it is any of your business."

Mycroft strode past him back into the building but stop, his hand on the door, "Sherlock, everything concerning you is my business."


End file.
